


Flora

by beaubete



Series: Ars(e) Technologica [7]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-03-31 02:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3960565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond retrieves exotic tea as a birthday gift for Q--there are some interesting side effects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flora

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday present for everyone who reads and enjoys and comments on my fic, and as I am the sort of girl who loves opening her presents a little early, presented the day before.

Half the reason he says anything is just to see Bond fall off the wall he’s sneaking across.  Bond manages to avoid landing on his head only by landing on his arse,  and Q’s still cackling as he watches the tiny CCTV screen.

“What?” Bond demands, and he sounds a bit breathy, winded by the tumble.  He’s supposed to be sneaking around the building, an abandoned munitions plant, to find any evidence that an infamous drug dealer may have been using it as a base, but it’s late and it’s obvious that there’s no proof, so Bond has been taking the opportunity to shower Q with the worst puns he can.  Q can’t even fault him his surprise, because: “We’ve been seeing each other for sixteen months,” Bond splutters.

“Not so loud!” Q shushes, hissing.  “I haven’t filed the fraternisation paperwork yet!”

“But it’s been over a year!”

“I’ve been busy,” Q tells him defensively.  Bond gives a little bark of laughter at that.

“I meant the other, the—”

“Surely you should have realised I had a birthday at some point in the year.”  Q’s voice is mild, and he stops to pull a long sip from his lukewarm tea.  It’s not the most revolting thing in the world—there’s no milk in, so it’s only tepid flavoured water—but he still spits against the taste of stale tannins on his tongue.

“I thought you’d say,” Bond says, and for all the world, he sounds as though he is pouting.  Q sighs.

“We weren’t—I’m a little surprised that you count—I mean, I didn’t even think of—well.  It wasn’t really seeing each other, was it, this time last year?”  And he doesn’t want to talk about it over the headsets, that period in their relationship where he’d thought Bond was humouring him and Bond had thought he was only kind of a slag.  They’d had it off together for about half a year until Q’d forgot himself and tried to kiss Bond post-blowjob, and after that it seemed rather rote that any man who’d let you feed his own come back to him by mouth might be interested in keeping you around a bit.

“But I would have got you a present,” Bond protests.

“Exactly.”  Some part of Q wonders what the Bond of last year would have given him—probably an ugly jumper.  A coupon for Benetton.  A scarf.  By now, Bond knows him better, knows Q’s not a fan of massive displays of material affection—

—or so he thought.  “I’ll bring you something home, then,” Bond says, and then there’s a rustle inside the building and they can’t sit and flirt; there’s a world to be saved.

::

He’s sitting at his desk filling out the frat-1 forms—“We don’t ask in order to peek in your bedroom windows, Quartermaster,” Mallory had said, face screwed up in that ‘Dad’ expression; he wasn’t so much angry as disappointed, “but so that we know what sorts of work we can assign you.  While we trust you not to kill him on purpose because you’re quarrelling, it is occasionally helpful to know when an employee, or two in this case, has a long-term partner.”—when Bond returns.  Q’s halfway to the sickening realisation that, in fact, Mallory had pulled the correct forms—the form that asks, “Do you and the other employee foresee the need for maternity leave?” versus “In a given week, how often would you say you or the other employee participate in anonymous sexual liaisons?”—when a hot cuppa appears by his elbow.  He glances up and Bond is frowning over his shoulder.

“These forms are meant to be private,” Q tells him, sliding his hand to cover his answers as subtly as possible.

“You’ve got number four wrong,” Bond tells him, already toeing off his shoes to sink onto the couch in Q’s office as though he lives there.  Considering the number of naps he’s taken in that very spot, he’s perhaps not entirely incorrect.

Number four involves willingness to foster, and Q’s throat bobs.  “I don’t have the free time to have that one wrong.”

“Not yet,” Bond agrees.  He puts his feet up on the coffee table until Q glares them back down again.  Q takes a deep sniff of the tea Bond’s left him and frowns.

“What have you tainted my mug with?” he asks, though ‘taint’ is perhaps a bit strong of an accusation; the tea has a sweet, herbal, nutty scent, almost pastry-like, for all it’s not his regular earl grey.  Q sniffs again and catches undercurrents of something sharp and nearly medicinal.

“It’s a present; I put the rest in your tea cupboard in the break room.  It may or may not be labeled ‘Q’s special birthday tea—touch it and die’.  I signed it.”

“My sweet, homicidal darling.  That doesn’t explain what it is.”

“Tea?  You know I don’t know the differences.  Tips in the morning, the flower one at night, and otherwise I don’t really notice.”

Q hums.  There’s something appealing about the tea, but—“And you got it—?”

“At a street market in the town center in Bolivia.  There was a little shop; the owner’s granddaughter helped me pick it.”

Of all the surprising things about seeing James Bond, it’s this sweet, romantic side that is the most startling; Q gives him a grateful smile and takes a sip.  The flavour’s odd, complex and earthy, almost loamy, with a floral burst that’s just this side of a pu-erh.  He’s pleasantly surprised; Bond has good taste in teas, or at least the shopgirl does.  He keeps the cup at hand as he finishes the paperwork, and before he quite knows it, the cup is empty and the papers are neatly stacked.  He’s about to offer to grab his coat so they can go, but when he stands, his knees wobble dangerously.

“Q?”  Bond’s voice is wary, and there’s an odd quality, almost as though he were underwater or, Q realises, as though the blood is rushing in Q’s ears.  He feels faint, and Bond helps him down onto the couch; it feels silly for how much cosier it feels now that Bond’s been using it, but he sinks into the body-warmed cushions gratefully.  Bond watches him pick up the pillow that was under his head moments ago and press it to his face, but the rich smell of Bond’s aftershave is grounding, stilling the uneasy swirl of nausea in his belly.  “Are you quite alright?”

“I feel a bit queer,” Q confesses, and almost immediately there are hands on him, Bond reaching to undo the knot of his tie.  Q’s still brushing suddenly sweaty hair back from his forehead when Bond’s fingertips graze his skin—it’s as though he’s been shot, a punch of sensation in the center of his chest, followed by the slow burn of heat radiating out from the point of contact.  A startled sound rips itself from his throat, and Bond freezes, terror writ on his face, but honestly, Q has no idea why he looks so frightened—it felt good.  Feels good.  He nuzzles Bond’s fingertips to the side, rubbing his face along the palm, and little prickles of pleasure fire across his skin in ever-widening ripples.  He sighs into the touch, and it’s laced with more than a bit of a moan.

Bond’s own scent is filling his nose, the salt sweat smell of skin and the expensive grooming products he prefers; even though he’s complained before that the smells can be too strong, too overwhelming, Q finds himself soothed by them, finds his soul calmed.  The prickles are resolving themselves into a familiar heat, a familiar rush of interest, and he presses his lips to the mound of Mars on Bond’s palm.  Bond watches him cautiously.  “I feel,” Q tries, but there aren’t really words.  Bond brings him close, draws him up tight against his chest, and the heat of his body is beginning to sear, beginning to crawl hungry down the line of his spine to leave him shivering.  It’s almost a creature, itself, and Bond soothes his sweaty hair back, tests his temperature with the back of a hand against his forehead.

“You feel feverish,” Bond tells him.  Q shrugs.  That’s not right, and it is, and it’s not enough to describe it.

“I want you to touch me.  I want your hands on my skin.  I like the way that feels,” Q confesses, and there’s something off, some reason why he shouldn’t be saying this here, some reason why he shouldn’t be pulling at the knot of Bond’s tie until he’s poised over Q’s body as he slinks down the cushions to lie back.  He’s staring up at Bond’s face with starry eyes and Bond’s frowning until Q reaches up with both hands to smooth the worry out of his wrinkled face.  “You know that I love you,” Q says, when no, he hasn’t said that before, though he can’t remember why that’s important.  Bond melts.

Bond’s touch is ginger, careful against the back of his shoulder, the ridge of his hip.  “I need to take you to Medical, darling; there’s something wrong.”  And Q recognises that yes, that’s probably right, probably so, probably true, but when he tugs at Bond with both hands, it’s easy to pull him down onto himself like a blanket, like a full, heated weight that presses him into the cushions exquisitely.

“Touch me first?”  And Bond cracks, pushing up his jumper and untucking the shirt underneath until his cool hands are making contact with the hot flush of his skin.  Q sighs happily, pulling at Bond’s shoulders with both arms until Bond falls against him again, until Bond’s thigh brushes against his cock and Q gasps for air.  Oh, yes, this is what his body is wanting; he stills Bond with an ankle across the back of his knee and rocks up, cock hard and hot enough to melt the zip of his trousers.  Bond stops, watching with wide eyes, as Q rubs against him again.

“Oh,” Bond murmurs, reverent, as if he’s had a revelation; Q thrusts against his thigh hard and dragging, and Bond’s lashes flutter.  “Q, you—”

Q cuts him off with a low hum of pleasure.  Bond’s thigh is wonderful, thick and muscled and hot and just, just right for rutting against.  It feels amazing, especially when Bond’s face goes soft at the edges again and he begins to move with him, pressing his weight into Q’s squirming hips until Q’s breath is a tight whine in the back of his throat and and he’s certain he’ll be chafed in the morning.  It’s still gorgeous; he comes against Bond’s leg with a muffled whimper against his collar.  

His heart is still racing and his breath shallow when Bond pulls back, concerned.  “A nap,” Q suggests hopefully, and Bond smiles, though it looks thin.  He tugs Q against him again.

Q wakes again in Medical, the steady sounds of beeping in his ear and Bond’s fingers combing through his hair.  “Medic Pitt told me that there was enough of your frat-1 form filled out that I could stay with you until you woke up,” Bond tells him quietly, then, “—and I perhaps threatened him until he reached that conclusion.  He’s very protective of you, you know.”

“Mm,” Q agrees, limply.  In fact, all of him feels rather limp, and Bond pets him idly.  “We trained together.”

“I—,” Bond says.  He flushes.  “He thought I’d.  Well.  He thought I’d dosed you, until I remembered to go back and get your forms.”

“Dosed—?”

“My Quechua needs brushing up on,” Bond admits, and it’s almost as boggling until—“I told her the tea was for my partner, you know.  A present, for my.”  Bond coughs, and the flush that sneaks over his ears is charming.  “I don’t know if there is a word for ‘boyfriend’.  I called you my man-wife.”

“Quechua—?”  But the image is forming in Q’s imagination: Bond stumbling through a conversation with the granddaughter of an old herbalist in the shadow of the Andes, and—“She thought you meant—!”

Bond nods, miserable.  “I would have never—but it was just tea?  I thought it was just tea.  Medic Pitt took the rest of it, I’m afraid.”

“So I don’t have a birthday present anymore,” Q says, and Bond’s face falls.  He can’t keep it up; laughing, he loops his arms around Bond’s shoulders to pull him in close again.  “I do, you know,” he says, because he hasn’t forgot anything about the way Bond felt above him, anything about the way this man makes him feel safe and protected, about the way this man talks about a future and a life together as if it is a matter of course.  Bond blinks for a moment while he catches up, but once he has, his face goes sweet and happy.  

“I know.”  And that’s the perfect answer, too.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Reality](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5007307) by [voculae (northernMagic)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/northernMagic/pseuds/voculae)




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